almost
by Alexandra Shinai
Summary: Nights like these are purely adrenaline-fueled, the two of them high on a good performance and maybe a few drinks and a burning need that won't subside. They don't mean anything, even though they could almost mean something. -Or, Roger and Freddie are friends with benefits, but Roger's in love with him.


**Loosely inspired by the song 'Almost (Sweet Music)' by Hozier; would recommend listening to it while you read.**

Almost.

In the moments like this one, when they've both gotten their fill of each other and are just starting to come down from the post-show adrenaline high, there's almost something connecting the two of them.

Freddie's lips are kiss-swollen and there's the ghost of a smile on his lips as he pulls back and stands up from the bed. His hair is a rumpled mess but he still looks as perfect as ever, standing nude in front of Roger, eyes soft and a dark mark on the underside of his jaw from where Roger tasted him.

Roger props himself up on his elbows and sweeps his eyes over the length of Freddie's body, taking in every detail, every curve, every place that he wants to explore but hasn't yet gotten the chance. Freddie smiles wider, turns in a slow circle as though Roger's thoughts are written across his face.

It's almost enough.

"I'll be right back, darling," Freddie says, turning and walking into the bathroom. Roger watches him as he leaves, gaze lingering on his legs, on the way Freddie walks so softly, a far cry from his presence onstage. In the moments like this one, it's almost like Freddie's existence is meant solely for him.

It's a selfish thought, but Roger entertains it nonetheless.

Soon Freddie returns, a soft, damp washcloth in his hand. He's almost glowing in the dim light of the bedroom, a red flush high on his cheeks as he sits down on the edge of the bed, turning to Roger. Roger parts his legs easily, lets Freddie fall between them like it's the only place he's ever truly belonged.

Freddie moves the cloth over his skin with a surprising gentleness, like Roger is fragile, breakable; precious, even. Up the inside of Roger's thighs he goes, cleaning up the mess they've made. He bends over Roger to drag the cloth over his stomach, and in this position Roger can remember the way his legs had been wrapped around Freddie's waist only minutes earlier; the sheen of sweat on Freddie's skin, the praises on Freddie's lips.

It's almost enough.

There's an ache in his chest as Freddie pulls back, inspects his work with that soft smile still on his lips, the one that always makes Roger want to kiss him until they're both out of breath.

"All better?" Freddie asks. Roger nods, doesn't tell him that he's almost all better, that he'll never be completely better because there's something missing, something he can never have.

Freddie untangles himself from where he'd become wound around Roger's body once more, sliding off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom to get rid of the washcloth. It's no time at all before he reappears, soft steps crossing the room until he's back at the side of the bed, climbing in and laying down by Roger's side, easy as breathing. Roger lies down as well, turning his head to watch Freddie's eyes flutter shut, a sigh leaving those soft lips that Roger's kissed too many times and yet not enough.

There are only mere inches between their bodies, but somehow after all they've done tonight, it feels wrong to come any closer; as if they haven't spent hours entangled, as if Roger hasn't burned into his mind the sight of Freddie coming undone, breathing out his name like a prayer.

Freddie's eyes open and meet his, something questioning in his gaze before he's curling closer, throwing an arm over the expanse of Roger's chest, palm splayed out over the side of his ribcage. He lays his head down right next to Roger's, the sharp jut of his chin pressing into Roger's shoulder, and it's almost too much.

"Are you alright?" Freddie asks, concern lacing his tone. The ache in Roger's chest grows; he feels like he's caught between a lie and the truth, pulled apart until he splits in two, until there's nothing left but the cracked and jagged pieces of himself. "You're awfully quiet tonight."

"I'm fine," he says, the lie tripping off his tongue easily, almost too easily. "Just tired."

Freddie smiles, kisses the curve of his shoulderblade. Besides Roger, he suddenly pushes himself up onto his knees, leaning down to reach for the crate of records underneath the side table. Roger watches him as he shuffles through the crate, plucking out one that Roger would know in his sleep. Freddie puts the record on and leans the case against the side table, turning back to Roger and curling back around him as if he'd never left.

The sweet music fills the room, a familiar tune cutting through the silence between them, drowning out everything Roger wants to say but knows he never can. How can he possibly tell Freddie he's in love with him? How every little coy look and sway of his hips onstage makes Roger feel like he's drowning, how Freddie's the tide that crashed into him and pulled him under, burning his lungs and stealing his air until the tide was all that remained within him?

Freddie tucks his head into the gap between Roger's neck and shoulder and closes his eyes again, and Roger sighs, breath catching as he allows himself the smallest press of lips to Freddie's forehead. Freddie hums quietly at the touch, and Roger's heart seizes.

There's almost something between them. They're almost something.

Almost.

Almost.

Roger wishes he had the courage to say it. But he can't tell his best friend he's in love with him, even though they know each other so intimately. Even though they have nights like these, when they've grown tired of all the girls offering themselves up so easily, when nothing else will satisfy them but each other.

Nights like these are purely adrenaline-fueled, the two of them high on a good performance and maybe a few drinks and a burning need that won't subside. They don't _mean _anything, even though they could almost mean something.

Freddie looks at him sometimes with eyes so soft it makes Roger want to smash his drumsticks into a thousand pieces, for fear of spilling the truth, for fear of ruining everything.

They're just starting to get somewhere, just starting to make themselves known, with higher-charting singles and sold-out tours and fans that know their names, beg for autographs. Roger can see it in the tabloids now, if he ever lets the truth come out; drummer falls in love with lead singer, band breaks up. Or they kick Roger out and replace him. But he can't imagine not having Freddie in his life, even if he can only have him from a distance.

If the world knew what Roger thought of Freddie, the band would be ruined; his reputation would be ruined; his life would be ruined. Freddie would just be disgusted with him; he's almost sure of it.

He'll take a lifetime of pain over Freddie's disappointment any day.

He hears Freddie's breaths even out as the music and warmth of Roger's body lull him to sleep, and it's not long before Roger follows, pressing one last kiss to Freddie's forehead before he shuts his eyes and lets himself go.

He dreams of telling Freddie, but he doesn't know where to start.


End file.
